


(Sherlock X Reader) What Are You Looking At?

by LVE32



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Adorable, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cute, Establishing Relationship, F/M, Feel-good, Feels, First Kiss, First Meetings, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Funny, Gentle Kissing, Kissing, Meet-Cute, Mild Sexual Content, Pining, Pining Sherlock Holmes, Pre-Relationship, Reader-Insert, Sherlock Has A Crush, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Sherlock is a Good Boyfriend, Sweet, Sweet Sherlock, Touch-Starved, Touching, Touchy-Feely, Vulnerable Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:33:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24645712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LVE32/pseuds/LVE32
Summary: John notices Sherlock staring at a woman (Y/N) in a cafe, and prompts him to ask for her number.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	(Sherlock X Reader) What Are You Looking At?

"---but it was only a fracture, so she'd---what are you looking at?" John sat opposite his friend, who started suddenly, dragging his eyes back from over John's shoulder to focus on him.

"Nothing." Sherlock cleared his throat a little. "Please, continue."

John quirked up an eyebrow, holding Sherlock under an assiduous stare. "Right ... Where was I? Ah, yeah, so she'd basically--"

Sherlock's gaze had once again gravitated towards a point just over John's shoulder, a glassy expression clouded his usually crystalline eyes.

John felt irritation nibbling at his edges at this; sure, his strange flatmate had never been very interested in his stories about working at the surgery, but he could at least try to act like he cares, just a little. "Okay, seriously! What is so fascinating that you---" he turned around on his chair to try locate the thing that held Sherlock's attention so dearly, and found it almost at once:

A woman sitting at the table by the window. She was reading a small paperback, leaning with her back against the slightly condensation-riddled glass of the window, so absorbed in her novel's contents that the dampness didn't seem to bother her.

John smirked and faced his friend again, who's cheeks were sprinkled with a small---but still noticeable---uncharacteristic blush. " _ Oh _ ."

"' _ Oh _ ' what?"

John's eyebrows---which had inched even further up his face---were now hidden almost completely by his blonde fringe. He stirred the last dregs of his tea with a spoon absently;  _ this was going to be interesting.  _ "What do you mean ' _ what _ '? You were staring at that woman weren't you?"

Chuckling, Sherlock shook his head pityingly at John's naivety and nibbled the corner of his ginger snap. "Really, John? Surely after all these years, you would be well aware that I don't care about---"

"Yeah, yeah." It's an understatement to say that John looked unconvinced.

Sherlock sat a little straighter as if minutely improving his posture could somehow make his claim more credible. "Of course not. Do you  _ really  _ think that I--"

"Yes."

"No, I most certainly was not! And anyway, why out of all the people in this cafe would I be staring at  _ her _ in particular? You're being illogical."

John shrugged, angling himself as much as needed to get a clear view of the unsuspecting woman in question, but not too much so as to seem suspicious. "It seems perfectly logical to me. She's about your age, you're a human being, she's a human being. She's sitting alone, reading. I'm no detective, but she seems quiet, maybe quite clever. Just your type."

Scoffing: "How do  _ you  _ know what's  _ my type _ ?" Clearly the conversation was ruffling Sherlock's feathers. So much so that he'd forgotten to deny that he even has a 'type'.

"Well, I assume it's just like your taste in everything else: If it's loud, stupid, or boring you're not interested."

Sherlock looked like he was collecting up the pieces of his dignity that he had dropped, brushing invisible dust from the front of his jacket, running a hand through his hair---a nervous habit---John noticed, and took a cleansing breath. "I'm bored. Could we please change the subject?"

"Not until you ask her out."

Sherlock choked on his tea. "What?!"

John merely fractionally inclined his shoulders.

"Don't you realize how strange that would be? Casually sidling up to someone and---and what? What exactly do you say in such a circumstance? I can't ask her to accompany me to a cafe, we're already in one! And we've just met, that's way too early for a full meal at a restaurant. And besides, it's not like I'm interested in her at all, let alone in that way. And she may not even want to," Sherlock gushed in a cascading waterfall to no one in particular.

John drained his mug, grimacing because he had accidentally allowed the beverage to cool to a tepid pool of concentrated tea dregs. He placed the now empty china to the side and gave his flatmate a look that could be seen as caring---or at least mildly benign, and stated in a patient tone: "Please. Just ask her for her number, or give her yours. Just do something. It'll be good for you; have someone else to amuse you."

"I don't want her number," Sherlock tried half-heartedly. But he seemed smaller now; unsure.

"Mate, we both know  _ that's  _ not true."

Sherlock stared at the man in front of him for a long time. Maybe John had a point. He'd struggled with friendship in the past, eventually giving up on it altogether (a decision that lead to a lonesome and boring existence). Then he'd met John, which had proven to be worth his time. Maybe people weren't so bad? It would be nice to have another person to socialize with, discuss ideas and thoughts, etcetera. And it's not like having friends had caused him any harm. How many times had John saved his life? Proved invaluable on a case?

Sherlock leaned over to sneak another look at the woman by the window. A weak trickle of January sunlight was seeping through the glass, causing her hair to lighten by a few hues at the edges. It looked soft to touch. Sherlock felt himself wavering. He moved closer to the table to ask John quietly (feeling his face heat with shame) "Even... even if I did... think of her in that way...what do you propose I do about it?"

John looked momentarily surprised, then offered a kind smile. "Just as I said. Go up to her and ask for her number."

"But what do I---oh." Sherlock seemed to wilt all of a sudden with disappointment, and slumped back in his chair.

The woman was packing up her things and putting on her coat to leave.

"Go catch her, quick!" John prompted, standing too and motioning for Sherlock to follow the woman who was nearing the door.

"There's no use now, there was never any use anyway, it's not like--"

Before Sherlock could protest, John had grabbed his arm and pulled him into a standing position almost roughly and was practically dragging him towards the cafe door which had just swung shut behind his flatmate's crush. 

"John! Get off! What are you doing?" Sherlock hissed desperately, but that only caused John's pace to double.

"Come on! We're losing her!" He shoved the doors open, ignoring the slam of frostbitten air that greeted his face, and scanned the busy London streets. "Where'd she go?"

"There," the small (yet subtly hopeful) voice of his friend sounded next to him, and they were off again, speed walking after the woman, keeping the back of her coat in sight as they weaved through the mass of commuting bodies. "John!" Sherlock whined pitifully, trying one last time to slow him down, leaning backwards and digging the heels of his dress shoes into the uneven cobble of the street.

It did nothing, however, and soon they were right behind the woman, and Sherlock made a little squeaking noise as John tapped her on the shoulder. "Excuse me?"

The woman turned around in surprise to face the intruder of her quiet afternoon, tilting her head to the side in confusion at the tall curly-haired man in front of her, (who looked like he wanted to run away), and the shorter blonde man who was smiling warmly at her. "May I help you?"

Sherlock felt an unfamiliar warm sensation flood suddenly through his chest like syrup at the sound of the woman's voice. Up close, he could see all the little details of her face, and got a little lost in them, having to drag himself back to reality. It occurred to him that he'd really like to look at those features more. A lot more. As in, have them in his life, as loyal as trees lining the streets, prevalent as cracks in the pavement.

John widened his smile and pushed Sherlock forwards a little, and said: "Sorry for sneaking up on you like this, but my friend here saw you in the cafe just now and was about to ask you for your number." He chuckled fondly, giving Sherlock a nudge so it looked like they were just mates, bros, two ordinary people rather than one ordinary person and another so extraordinary John was worried he'd scare the woman away.

The woman looked pleasantly surprised, and Sherlock felt like he might spontaneously combust with embarrassment.

"John! Please! He elbowed him in the ribs, rather hard, and tried to meet the woman's eyes. "Sorry. We'll go now. Come  _ on  _ John."

"Wait!"

As Sherlock turned to leave, dragging John with him, the woman quickly stopped him.

Sherlock looked down at where she'd caught him, her hand on his arm. He could feel the gentle urgentness of it through his coat. It was nice. Her touching him. "Yes?"

"I thought you wanted my number?"

He wasn't expecting that. His face heated, and he wished it wouldn't; for some reason, he wanted to impress this woman. "If you wouldn't mi--"

"'Course I don't mind. Here." She slipped her hand into her coat and brought out a small slip of paper; a receipt from her local library, and removed a pen from her front pocket. "My name is Y/N, by the way." She scribbled something onto the paper and held it out to the detective.

John had to give him a nudge, prompting him to take the paper. He'd never seen Sherlock so shy before.

Sherlock's cheekbones reddened, John having woken him from a daydream---something about the way the light was reflecting off Y/N's lip balm---and took the paper from her. Their fingers brushed as he did so, her warm skin making his own tingle pleasantly.

John had been watching the whole thing as if it was a satisfying ending to his favourite tv show.

Y/N seemed to be waiting for someone to say something, eventually deciding they probably wouldn't and said: "Okay, well, have a good day. I hope to hear from you...?"

Sherlock had thought she was talking to John, because people usually are. Then he realised she wasn't. "Sherlock. Holmes! Sherlock Holmes," said man spluttered out, earning a chuckle from Y/N.

Usually, someone laughing at him, seeing him make a fool of himself, would send nails of humiliation down Sherlock's spine. But he didn't mind Y/N's giggle. He felt pleased to have made her smile.

"Pleasure to meet you, Sherlock." She gave him a genial smile, then turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Sherlock just stood still for a bit. What had just happened?

"Told you!" John's triumphant clap on the back awoke him from his stupor. "See? If I hadn't dragged you out here, you never would have gotten her number--"

"But what do I do with it?!"

John yelped as he was pulled violently by the lapels to face the detective, who stared down into his eyes with a terrified expression.

"What do I do now? How do you--"

"Hey, hey, okay. Calm down. Sherlock, please." John stepped out of his grasp, having to sort of prize his friend's fingers from his coat. He brushed himself off and looked at the taller properly for the first time in a few minutes.

Sherlock's face was an unusual pink, as if it had been full of red and then suddenly had most of the blood drained out of it, usually confident eyes now fear-stricken.

"What you're going to do, is wait until later, when she has probably got home, then call her and ask simply if she would like to meet you for a drink or whatever you want to do."

Sherlock still looked unsure, but he had a plan now, or the start of one, and plans always bring him a sense of ease. And he has Y/N's number.

...

Later, the two had walked back to 221B and were sat at the kitchen table drinking tea. There was a plate of biscuits between them and Sherlock had been taking one, consuming it quickly like a nervous mouse, then plucking another while John watched with amusement. He had never seen Sherlock so anxious in all his life; this even trumped the time he had found out about his unexpected fear of spiders when Sherlock had found one in the bath.

John decided to intervene not long after the last biscuit had disappeared, and a fresh packet had been opened. "I take it you haven't texted Y/N yet? What? You scared?"

Sherlock went crimson. "No! I was thinking of something else. A case."

"You don't have a case."

"I could do!"

John rolled his eyes and took another Custard Cream for himself. "Do you want me to text her with you?"

Sherlock snapped: "I'm not a child!" Then wilted. He would really like to see Y/N again. What if she's like him? Even a little bit? He could finally talk to someone about things he cares about, rather than an annoying patient at the surgery or about how one of John's relatives is in hospital again. "...I just don't know what to say."

"Well, I do." John looked thoroughly pleased to know more about something than the detective for once. "See, I am useful for something." He took the seat next to his flatmate and elbowed him lightly.

"I never said you aren't useful." Sherlock creased his eyebrows and even looked a little hurt.

"Oh really? How about last week when---"

"Could we just get on with it, please?" Sherlock interrupted, not wanting to be reminded of how snappy he can be. That was one of his main concerns: that even if he did like Y/N, she wouldn't like him. "Sorry. I'll feel better when it's done. I'm just worried that if I leave it too long she might think I'm uninterested."

"If you want my help, you're going to have to be nicer," John spoke as if Sherlock was a misbehaving child and had to hold in a snort of laughter.

...

It took half an hour, but, eventually, they had formulated a text that met intellectual and somewhat posh Sherlock and socially knowledgeable working-class John's standards, and presently Sherlock's finger hovered above the 'send' button.

"So?" John faced the table again after making a fresh pot of tea.

"So nothing. I'm re-reading it." Sherlock still sat, eyes flicking from side to side as he re-read the message again to check for... something.

John finally leaned over and hit the 'send' button himself, making Sherlock yelp "I wasn't ready!"

"You were taking too long!"

"I was thinking!"

"This is relationships, you  _ don't _ think!"

"I'm always thinking!"

"Well, you mustn't!"

"That's alright for  _ you  _ to say---"

"Wait, shut up!" John put a quick end to their childish quarrel because he was staring at the screen of Sherlock's mobile, where a text bubble had appeared below their carefully crafted own.

Would be a pleasure. See you at ten-thirty tomorrow. - Y/N

...

Ten thirty, Sunday, came around simultaneously too quickly and too slowly for Sherlock Holmes. He woke early, which surprised himself, and spent the morning showering and picking a shirt to wear, then putting it back and swapping it for something that would appear to be exactly the same to any normal individual, but infinitely different to the man himself. 

He debated with himself about whether to go through with this after all, or to just apologise and cancel. What if he makes a fool of himself? What if he was wrong about Y/N and she wasn't his type at all? Or, even worse: what if she was _ completely _ his type and he fell in  _ love _ ? How does one go about being in  _ love _ ? Would he know how to? What to do? Would he enjoy the fluttery feeling people describe as their lover walks into the room? Would he like touching, being touched, hands holding his, lips against his own---

Sherlock shook his head to clear it, trying to push the now rather pleasing images out of his mind. He couldn't think about that, wouldn't  _ dare  _ think about that yet. They had only met once and had even then only said a few words. 

...

Why is Sherlock so nervous, she's just a person. He had decided after all not to cancel the meeting (he didn't dare call it a date, even though he really wanted to. He'd never had one of those before). This morning he'd been wracked with anxiety, but now felt a little excited by it---more than a little---he could feel his heart beating quickly in his chest as he pushed the door to the tea shop open, entered timidly, eyes scanning the slightly crowded room. He stopped as they fell on Y/N, sitting at a two-person table in the corner, a thoughtful look softening her face as she daydreamed. She looked even nicer than Sherlock remembered. Pretty. Too pretty to look at. Well, He  _ wanted  _ to look at her, but he was afraid that if he did he'd do something stupid like blush. And he was  _ determined  _ not to do that.

"Y/N," Sherlock greeted as he approached, smiling genuinely for the first time in a while. He's blushing already.

"Sherlock! Hi, it's great to finally properly meet you." Y/N held out her hand for him to shake, her soft fingers curling around his own sending a tingling sensation shooting up his arm.

Had it not been so pleasant he may have wondered if it was a heart attack.

Y/N gestured at the seat opposite herself, a steaming mug of tea and plate of ginger snaps set out on the table. "I ordered for you, I hope you don't mind."

"No, I don't mind, they're my favourite," Sherlock said in quiet bewilderment "How ever did you know?"

Y/N's lips tugged up at the corners in a way that made Sherlock's stomach do some kind of backflip. "I noticed you eating one at the cafe yesterday."

Surprised: "You noticed me in the cafe?" He didn't feel like the kind of person people notice (especially not people like Y/N). He hadn't felt noticeable for a long time. Hadn't bothered to try to be noticeable, even gone out of his way to  _ not get noticed.  _ He didn't know why, he wouldn't say he was socially anxious, per se, he'd just rather people didn't look at him too much. It was easier to be someone people don't notice when it was your choice _ n _ ot to be noticed. He'd rather elude people's notice then be starved of it.

"Yes." Y/N's cheeks turned a pastel pink and Sherlock felt comforted a little that he wasn't the only one that was nervous. "That's one of the reasons why I was so glad you invited me here. I have to admit that I may have been sneaking peeks at you over my novel."

Sherlock didn't know what to say to that. 'Would you like to move into the spare room in my apartment?' sprang to mind, but he didn't want to scare her off. That always happened; he'd meet someone actually worth talking to, open his mouth and they'd leave. He didn't want that to happen with Y/N.

There were lots of things he didn't want to happen with Y/N. Like not being noticed. He  _ wanted _ her to notice him, that he was wearing a brand new jacket, was clean-shaven and had spent fifteen minutes this morning doing his hair. 

Accidentally being rude. That's another thing he didn't want to happen. Sometimes he can't help it, he'll say something he shouldn't to someone who didn't deserve it, their smile fading and being replaced with hurt, then anger as they tell him to fuck off. Which he usually deserved. He didn't want that to happen, he didn't want his stupid mouth to say something horrible to Y/N (not that he could ever think of something horrible to say to her) and her to walk out of his life forever. There's a lot more, but the point is, he had a mental list of things he didn't want to happen.

His list of things he  _ did  _ want to happen was even longer.

Sherlock joked, not believing what she'd been implying for a second: "Did I have ginger snap crumbs on my face or something?"

Y/N didn't return his chuckle. "What? No, I was looking at you because I found you attractive.  _ Do _ find you attractive. Very in fact." Her whole face had gone tomato coloured and not only was it the most endearing thing Sherlock had ever seen but also s _ he thought he was attractive. Very, in fact. _

He'd be lying if he said he hadn't imagined marrying this woman just then. Not even in a 'I want to marry you one day' way, more in a 'I could happily spend the rest of my life in your presence' kind of way. She'd move into his apartment and they'd go on cases together and split the rent and have both their names by the doorbell. He pictured himself cooking her dinner, them chatting on the sofa well into the night, helping her paint the spare room, and realised he was getting ahead of himself. Ahead of everyone; he barely knew anything about her. Well, he knew some things. He knew that she found him attractive. That's a start.

"You...find me attractive?" He'd just been sort of staring at her for a good thirty seconds, opening and closing his mouth like the goldfish his brother used to have in his room when they were kids.

She wasn't meeting his eyes. "Yes. I wanted to ask for your number but I was too shy. Imagine if your friend hadn't made you chase after me and ask for  _ mine. _ "

Sherlock did, and hated it.

" I would have never got to look at you again. So I'm trying to be braver. Speak my mind, so I don't miss any other opportunities. I _do_ find you attractive."

"Thank you. I find you attractive too." Lips curving into a smile at the stupid romantic thing he was about to say. "Very. In fact."

Y/N glowed. It was so pleasant Sherlock had to change the subject quickly, so he didn't lean over right then and there and kiss her:

"It's funny because I'd made a mental note to myself n _ ot  _ to speak my mind. I'm always pushing people away by saying things I shouldn't. I don't know when to shut up." It happened again, just then, where he thought he was going to make her laugh but instead she looked sad.

"You made mental notes of things  _ not  _ to do when talking to me?"

"Yes."

Y/N shook her head. "I'm not a butterfly that's landed on you, Sherlock. If you make a wrong move I won't fly away. I agreed to meet with you today because I want to get to know  _ you,  _ not some perfect version of yourself where some of your best qualities are locked away, stuffed in a crate."

"They're not my best qualities, though. You'll see, you'll probably say you like something like a book or a movie and I'll call it stupid and then---" He was rambling now, mad at himself because why had he even come here? Why had he even hoped he could befriend this wonderful woman? Be a regular person, do regular-person-things like have a relationship and go on dates? He's a pariah, he's always been on the outside looking in at normal life, he'd accepted that years ago so why was he here, now, trying to find the door?

Something warm was on his hand.

It was Y/N's hand, she'd placed it over his resting on the table.

Sherlock stopped talking abruptly. He'd lost his train of thought anyway, his brain was just  _ Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N _

"I meant it. When I said I'm not going to fly away. I want to get to know you. Really."

...

They talked for over two hours. It was the kind of talk they mention in old French romantic novellas, Sherlock thought---not that he'd read such things. Deep and meaningful and exhilarating, learning more and more about each other, so quickly that it was hard to keep track of where one person's information ended and your own bagun. He hadn't planned to say much, he didn't want to give too much away. And, rather sadly, it never occurred to him to talk about himself. But Y/N had this way about her, the way she asked him things made him feel she really cared, and before he knew it his life story was just spilling out.

"Sorry, am I boring you?" He'd asked, worried that his chances of a new friendship had evaporated during his account of his high school years, but Y/N shook her head, seeming confused.

"No, not at all."

He'd smiled, now even more smitten.

Sherlock found that Y/N was renting an apartment until she could find somewhere more permanent and affordable (this made his head spin with hopeful anticipation and he'd had to clamp his mouth shut so he wouldn't beg her to move in with him). She liked to read, obviously and enjoyed writing. Sherlock had been mentally noting down every new piece of information as if forming a Wikipedia page, but after a few minutes it had sort of spiralled into a messy pile of the way she laughed, and how it felt when she touched his hand. 

His list of things he wanted to happen had grown even longer.

...

Sherlock went back to 221B when he had said goodbye to Y/N, having arranged that John would come over to discuss how the cafe had gone, but he wished he could cancel that now. He wanted to talk to Y/N some more, be with her longer. They didn't even have to be talking, he'd be perfectly content just sitting in silence at the cinema or something; just being close to her was enough. She had this addictive energy, this depth and kindness that made him reluctant to part with her.

John opened the door for him as soon as he knocked, ushering him into the room and settling him down on the sofa with a cup of tea. "So? How did it go? You were out for five hours, whatever did you do? If you don't mind me asking?"

"Really fond of this new more human me, aren't you, John?" Sherlock quipped, embarrassed that his friend---who used to quite look up to him---was seeing him like this. He would want it to go back to how it used to be, before Y/N, when John saw him as an unfeeling machine---but that was  _ before Y/N.  _ Sherlock would rather be seen as human than not have met Y/N. Which surprised even himself. "We met at the coffee shop, as planned. Then Y/N suggested visiting the museum down London wall; it had an exhibition on and she was eager to see it. Then we just wandered around for a while."

John scoffed "You? ' _ Wander around _ '? The day you just 'wander around' will be the day England falls."

"Well, I hope not, because we're doing it again on Wednesday," Sherlock tried not to smile proudly but couldn't help it.

John clapped him hard on the back and he nearly spilt his tea. "Well done! That's fantastic! So you had a good time, then?" John poured himself some more tea (like any Englishman would whilst listening to a good story).

"Yes, she was nice. I had a nice time. It was a nice day."

"You become quite the poet when you're in love, don't you?" John smirked, earning a disgusted look from Sherlock and an outraged cry of:

"I'm not in love!" Lies. Lies. Lies.

To say John didn't look convinced was an understatement. His eyes slid over Sherlock's face, taking in the sparks lighting his eyes and the blossoming of colour over his cheekbones.

Sherlock realised this is what it feels like to be on the receiving end of a deduction, and decided that he didn't like it.

"Uh-huh. But you do... like her?" John prompted, probably hoping a steady relationship would improve the taller's mood. Ever since he had known him, Sherlock seemed to live in a small world of irritation, tight suits and depression. Some oxytocin and serotonin from a caring individual might be just the thing he needs to lift that storm cloud away from his head.

Sherlock had gone a little pink and said with less confidence than he probably meant "Yes. Yes, I do I like her. Of course, I have only known her for roughly a day, but we did... get on." 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I promise I'll continue this one day


End file.
